the first christmas present

The package sat on the kitchen table.
Addressed to James Healy.
British first class stamps.
No postage or date mark.
The handwriting of the name and address disguised.
That is to say the letters capitalised, with each letter a different size, and the curves of the lettering squared off.
Around the kitchen table sat the Mammy, the Dad, Doctor Barn and me.
"Do you think it could be from Al Qaeda?" I ventured.
There was a general rolling of eyes.
My family still haven't forgiven me for the moderate inconvenience of an Al Qaeda attack on our house some years ago when I was writing for the Leinster Leader newspaper.
I had written a light hearted gently satirical piece about Saddam Hussein.
Then a large package arrived at the house. Twice the size of the present one.
I'd phoned Gill and Macmillan, the publishers who sometimes sent me books to review.
Gill and Macmillan swore to me there no parcels of books due to arrive at my house.
I called the cops.
Told em I'd written something about Al Qaeda and that a suspicious parcel had landed on my doorstep.
Two squad cars roared up to the house.
I remember the look of the large reinforced metal container the cops brought with them for controlled explosions.
It was like a bell.
They propped it unused against the wall of the house.
Garda Kadorsky, a thuggish fellow with a bad reputation in the area, took my parcel onto the lawn and began to hack at it with a knife.
I remember addressing his partner Garda Boobenstein somewhat sheepishly.
"He doesn't look very frightened," I'd said.
"No," replied Garda Boobenstein drily.
(Garda Boobenstein is not her real name. It is a name Heelers gave her in honour of her great steins. Arf, arf. A little stein humour there. - Ed note.)
Garda Kadorsky had knocked a hole in the side of the box.
Nothing exploded.
A little note fluttered from the package onto the grass.
It read: "With the compliments of Gill and Macmillan."
I'm telling you folks.
If I ever get those bast--ds down...
The police drove away.
I'd gone back into the house.
My cousin Jamie Berney entered.
"You won't believe what I've just seen," he told us. "Two squad cars packed with police on the avenue and every one of them laughing their holes off. Kadorsky was driving and he looked like he was going to have a heart attack, he was laughing so hard."
Ah memories.
Back to the present day.
Another day, another letter bomb, as we do say in the trade.
"Do you feel like calling the cops again?" wondered Doctor Barn drolly.
I did not deign to reply.
In a single motion I tore open the parcel.
And lo!
Twas a book.
Not just any book.
The book was...
Life Is Local, A History Of The Johnston Press; By Edward Reilly; Published 2006, by The Johnston Press.
Understand this gentle travellers of the internet.
By giving you details of the title, author and publication date of this book, I am positively NOT encouraging you to buy it!
The family gathered round.
There was a small unsigned enclosure that read simply "Seasons Greetings."
We peered closely.
Aside from the disguised letters on the outer envelope, no handwriting at all.
"Who do you think sent it?" said the Mammy.
"Well it has to be someone in the Johnston Press," sez I.
"A friend?" mused the Dad.
"I don't think I have any friends in the Johnston Press," sez I.
"Maybe a disgruntled member of staff wants to give you ammunition," postulated Doctor Barn, doctorbarningly.
I paused.
"It's more likely to be a two fingered salute," sez I.
We stared at the book for a few more moments.
"Hey," said I finally. "What if it's really from Al Qaeda and they've coated the pages in anthrax? You know. The perfect crime. Make it look like the other guys did it."
There were general groanings from my nearest and dearest.
I found myself alone in the kitchen.
After a brief moment of indecision, I seized Life Is Local carried it outside, and dumped it where it belonged in the bin.
Much later tonight I found my eighty year old mother on the doorstep rummaging in the same bin.
"Has it come to this Mother?" I said softly.
"I want to read it," quoth she.
And there our story ends.